


Diners & Diatribes

by Kangofu_CB



Series: Charity Work [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky is not super powered at all, Bucky is not the Winter Soldier in this, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton doesn't always make the best decisions, Face-Fucking, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Sex Tapes, but it's for charity, but this time he definitely did, dick to height ratio speculations, he's just a very pretty hipster, pool as a flirtation mechanism, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: So, Clint let his ex sell their sex tape.It was for charity, okay? He doesn't see what the big deal is, no one is interested in America's Fifth Favorite Avenger's bedroom prowess.Except for how everyone kind of is.Enter Bucky Barnes, pool shark and Hawkeye aficionado, and while Clint's been advised against inadvisable bar hook-ups, Bucky seems like averyadvisable choice.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Charity Work [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982893
Comments: 77
Kudos: 407





	Diners & Diatribes

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shoreline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26980186) by [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton). 



> Written with generous permission from Clara, who said I could take her ficlet and run with a sequel from Clint's POV. Thank you for being a good sport and letting me play in your sandbox! Please make sure you go read it first, because I'm not sure this will stand on its own without the backstory! Go, shoo! Then come back here and enjoy my pornographic follow-up! 
> 
> P.S. Clara - I have left this open for a sequel. Just sayin'.

Clint hadn’t thought much about the text when he’d got it. He’d been overtired and under caffeinated and fresh off a mission in Madripoor, and Ely’s texts were always a bit weird. 

_Ely_ was a bit weird. 

But in the kombucha-drinking, succulent growing, yoga-as-a-mindfulness-hobby millennial kind of way, not in any kind of way that would make Clint think he was anything but sincere. He’d lasted a lot longer than any of Clint’s other hook-ups masquerading as a relationship, putting up with the Hawkeye bullshit a lot longer than most people did, even before he found out it was Hawkeye bullshit.

So when he sent a text that came through on Clint’s phone somewhere over Bethel, Alaska, Clint really didn’t think much of it. 

_Can I sell our sextape? It’s for charity._

It took Clint a solid ninety seconds to remember they’d even _made_ a sex tape, and he probably couldn’t tell anyone what was on it, even under threat of torture. _Probably_ there wasn’t anything super incriminating on it. Surely they wouldn’t have made a sex tape that would embarrass Clint if it were seen by the general public. 

_It’s for that animal shelter on 5th. The one we went to to pet the puppies that one time. They’ve lost all their funding._

And there was the hook that Ely had to have known Clint was going to fall for. 

Fuck it, he’d sold worse than his dignity for less worthy causes. 

_Sure,_ Clint sent back. _Make sure the lighting looks good_. 

Fuck it, he figured. What was the kid gonna make on it? Fifty bucks? America’s fifth favorite Avenger makes a sex tape, more at eleven. No one would care. 

_You’re the best_ , Ely said, and Clint leaned his head against the headrest of the quinjet and tried to squeeze in a nap. 

**

So the sex tape was a hit. 

Clint didn’t actually know that until an Avengers press conference. He’d been midway through chugging a bottle of water and trying to hide the fact that he was bleeding a concerning amount under his tac vest when one of the reporters said they had a question for Hawkeye. 

No one ever had a question for Hawkeye. So he could be forgiven for being completely unprepared for what happened next. 

“Uh, sure,” he’d said. 

“Is the video that’s currently circulating on various websites really you?” She’d said it with a perfectly straight face, and it had taken Clint a long, syrupy moment to understand what the unholy glee in her eyes meant. 

“I, uh… what video?” he’d said, in the most unconvincing manner possible. 

Natasha turned and gave him an unblinking stare, the one that meant she was reconsidering whether he was worth all the trouble she’d gone to of not killing him in the past and subsequently keeping him alive ever since. 

The reporter held up her cellphone, and that- yeah, yep, that was… That was Clint’s back, and uh, his other assets, yeah. That was. Hmm. The angle on that was really good, actually. “This video,” she said, smug and looking more and more like a shark that had scented blood.

Clint could feel the rest of the Avengers staring at him. He very carefully did not turn his head to look. 

The phone must have been on its highest volume setting because even Clint could hear the pornographic noises coming from the speaker. Which meant everyone else could too. 

He shrugged. “Looks like me,” he allowed, unsure how best to handle this. He wasn’t sure how to handle anything like this. 

Beneath the table, Nat dug her sharp fingernails into his thigh. 

It was like the breaking of a dam, with reporters shouting questions too quickly for Clint to follow. He caught a couple of them, but they were also to fast for him to respond. 

“Did you give permission for the release of the tape?”

“Did you know you were being recorded?”

“Will you be suing the person who released the tape?”

Nat’s nails were really starting to hurt, and he was getting a little dizzy from both the overwhelming attention and the blood loss. He cleared his throat into the mic, and when that didn’t work, he tapped on it loudly enough to be heard over the echo of the room. 

“Hey,” he said, when he could get a word in edgewise. “It was for charity.”

And then he passed out. 

**

When Clint woke up in medical, he had stitches in his side and Pepper Potts sitting by his bed. She had the same expression on her face that Clint usually saw when Tony had made a particularly egregious showing at a public event. It was eerily similar to the time he’d called a prominent right-wing politician an ‘out of touch hag’ to her face. 

So, this looked bad. 

“Hi Pep,” Clint said, trying for charming and roguish but probably looking pathetic. Dammit, he should have aimed for pathetic. Pathetic might have got him more mileage. Tony had cornered the market on charming and roguish. 

“A sex tape for charity? Really?” Pepper said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You couldn’t have _warned_ me?” 

“I… didn’t really think anyone would care?” Clint said. In fact, he was still confused as to why anyone cared. 

Pepper turned her tablet around to face him. “Hawkeye” “Hawkeye Sex Tape” “Charity Sex Tape” and “Avenger Sex Tape” were all at the top of the Twitter trends. In fact, all but two of the top ten trends were about him. Wordlessly, she scrolled down her feed, about half of which tagged her to see if she could verify the tape was real, and the other half were also tagged #whereishawkeyestwitter and #whoishawkeye. So at least his secret identity was uh, still secret?

“Sorry Pepper,” Clint said, because unlike Tony he knew when to apologize. 

She sighed heavily and looked upwards, shaking her head in a _what am I going to do with you_ manner. “No more sex tapes,” she said firmly. 

“Yes ma’am.”

She paused. “ _Are_ there more sex tapes?” 

“Uh-”

“Nevermind. Don’t answer that. Do not authorize anyone else to distribute any sex tapes, videos, recordings, audio, or anything else to anyone else without telling me first. On that note - the distributor of this one says that you gave permission for it to be sold, so I just want to make sure that’s true and we don’t need to sue anyone.”

“No, I definitely told him he could sell it. They were gonna close a shelter!” It seemed crucially important that she knew he’d done it for a good reason. Or something. 

Pepper sighed. “We could have made a donation to a shelter, Clint.”

He snapped his mouth shut. Because that hadn’t even occurred to him. Hell, _he_ could have donated to a shelter. He kept forgetting he had money these days, because he’d spent so much time not having any. 

“And don’t accept any weird invitations to go out with anyone until all this hype dies down,” she added, and Clint groaned. 

One of his favorite ways to blow off post-battle stress was to pick someone up at a bar. “Why not?” he whined. 

“Because your dick is famous,” Pepper said bluntly. 

“My what is _what_?”

“Famous. Speculatively famous,” she amended. “There’s not really- have you watched the tape?”

Clint shook his head. The tape had been for Ely, not him. Honestly it’d been some kind of fucked up good-bye thing, because Ely had met Daniel, who was a nurse with a lot more stability than a superhero, and liked community gardening, and wanted to do shit like get married and adopt a bunch of babies, none of which were on Clint Barton’s to-do list. So Ely had seen the writing on the wall and so had Clint and they’d decided to have a fun last night of it, and Ely had kept the souvenir. 

Pepper sighed again. “The… angle… doesn’t really show any… intimate details.” She finally said. “So there’s a lot of speculation about… the size.”

Clint started laughing. It hurt, it pulled his stitches, but he couldn’t stop anyway. “Oh my god,” he managed. 

“There’s a height-to-dick ratio equation,” Pepper added helpfully, and that only made Clint laugh harder. 

“Oh god,” he gasped, pressing against his side and hoping he hadn’t popped any sutures. “That’s amazing, what’s the consensus?”

“Look it up yourself,” Pepper said primly. “You’ve caused me enough trouble. No hook-ups, no more sex tapes, keep quiet until I’ve spun this into something less embarrassing for you-”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Clint interrupted. “I’ve got a height-to-dick meter, I’m living my best life.”

“-and the team,” Pepper continued, like he hadn’t spoken, and that sobered Clint up quickly enough. Until he thought of how Steve’s _face_ must have looked at the press conference, and then he was off again, sniggering to himself. 

Pepper gave a heartfelt and sorrowful sigh, and left him to it. 

**

By the time Clint got out of medical, the entire team was in the common room with pizza and fully prepared to studiously pretend they didn’t know that Clint’s dick was available for public conjecture. 

Except Nat, who gave him one exasperated look that Clint interpreted as both forgiveness and a threat of harm if he pulled _one more stunt_ this week, and Tony, who seemed to take it as a personal offense that Clint’s dick was trending when his own was not. 

“I’m just saying,” Tony said, three beers deep as they all tried and failed to watch _Die Hard_ at Clint's request as the injured team member. “I have not one but _two_ sex tapes, and no one has ever made up a math algorithm to calculate my dick size.”

“That’s because it’s in perfect view of the camera in no less than four frames Tony,” Nat said, sounding bored. “They don’t need an equation, they just need a ruler. Clint’s dick has mystique.”

“It’s the only thing about him that’s mysterious,” Sam agreed, sipping his own beer. “And if we could stop talking about Hawkeye’s dick and instead watch Bruce Willis terrorize Nazis, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Hey,” Clint said, “my identity is still mysterious!”

Nat rolled her eyes, and kicked him in the shin. “If you ever make me look at your dick again I will personally kill you. And if your identity stays a secret for more than a week, I’ll be shocked.”

“Ely wouldn’t out me like that,” Clint pouted. 

“Oh is that Pretty Boy’s name?” Tony asked, giving Clint a speculative look. “You know, I really didn’t think he’d be your type. He’s all,” Tony gestured vaguely. “Hipster-y.”

Clint blinked at him. Clint didn’t have a type, except willing and available, and, okay, pretty, but the way Tony’d said it was a little rude. “What’s wrong with hipsters?” 

“The kombucha,” Tony said knowingly. 

“You drink smoothies with kale in them,” Steve said, finally deciding to weigh in. “I don’t think you get to judge other people’s beverage choices. You live on coffee, protein smoothies, and alcohol. You could probably learn a thing or two from the hipsters, at least they eat produce.”

Tony made a wounded sound and Steve tipped a wink at Clint, which was probably the closest he’d come to Cap’s approval since the last time he took down six members of AIM with one arrow. 

There was a moment of blessed silence, in which Clint got to hear Bruce Willis shout “Yippee-ki-yay, Motherfucker!” before Tony opened his mouth and said “Okay, but are the estimates _accurate_ or?”

“Man will you guys shut up?” Sam grumbled, turning the television up until it drowned out Tony’s _inquiring minds want to know_ , and Clint shot him a smug grin just to rile him up that much more. 

Then he got on Twitter and looked at the estimates.

**

When he got back to his room, he looked up the video. 

What he hadn’t realized was that the fucking thing was seventy-eight minutes long. And yeah, Clint prided himself on his stamina - he regularly fought on a team of superheroes, after all, he had to have staying power - but seeing it on screen was honestly kind of impressive. And he had to give credit to whoever had edited the video (and somebody had, because the lighting was good and Clint knew the actual lighting in Ely’s bedroom was shit). And looking at the room itself, he could see why Tony had jumped to conclusions about Ely being a hipster, with the ground-level bed, and the poster of beard styling guides and the completely un-ironic (or maybe it _was_ ironic?) art print of the bowtie patent. 

But the video was good. Not professional quality or anything, it was homemade porn and it looked like homemade porn, but someone had edited it enough that the lighting looked soft and intimate, and they’d cut just enough that neither Clint nor Ely’s face was in plain view, and if there had been any fumbling or some of the silly sex mishaps that happened to everyone those were gone too. 

So overall it looked like Clint was an attentive, determined partner with staying power and no gag reflex. Which was mostly true. 

So that was… good. 

If Hawkeye had to have a reputation other than World’s Greatest Marksman, then excellent in bed was a good one to have. 

Clint sipped at the beer he’d stolen from the kitchen that he wasn’t meant to be drinking with his meds and watched the video play. 

Hmm. He could add flexibility to the list too. 

Cool. 

**

Two weeks later Clint was suture-free and under strict instructions not to over-exert himself and going absolutely, despicably stir crazy. Nat was shadowing him, sending him sly smirks and preventing his escape at every turn as he slowly went insane. 

Now that some of the novelty had worn off and she’d threatened him with death, she seemed to find the entire situation amusing. 

The hype of the video hadn’t worn off yet, especially as the initial supply ran out and there was a shortage of supply and the price of the video on eBay skyrocketed before the supplier could produce more. There was still digital download, but apparently the demand for a physical copy was greater than anticipated. 

The shelter had far exceeded its goal, and was now spreading the literal wealth to other no-kill shelters in the greater New York area.

And the speculation about his dick hadn’t died down at all. Clint favorites were the Internet essays which broke down his height and “wingspan” to give a “scientifically accurate” estimate of his dick. JARVIS helpfully sent him any especially detailed or funny ones, though whether that was something he’d thought up or something Tony had told him to do was anyone’s guess. 

But now the sutures were gone, leaving Clint with a pink, tender line that would scar with all the others, and a desperate need to get the hell out of the Tower for a few hours. 

And frankly he’d love a hook-up but he was very much afraid Pepper would literally castrate him. So he was willing to settle for a few beers and some casual flirtation instead. So when he walked out of medical and Natasha was nowhere to be found, he made a break for it. 

It was a little early for the bar scene - the sun was just starting to set - but hell, it was New York. There was bound to be someone around. Clint took the subway to Bed-Stuy, mindful of the curious glances people kept shooting him. And maybe Nat was right about his secret identity, because how many 6’4” men with blond hair who favored purple hoodies could there be, really? But no one approached him and Clint hid behind his sunglasses and pretended to ignore them. 

Once he got off at his stop, though, he made an unplanned side-trip to his rarely-used apartment for a jacket and a different T-shirt. Wearing Hawkeye merch - even Kate’s - was probably a bad call at this point. 

Instead he ended up with Steve’s shield on his chest under a brown leather jacket that had seen its best days in the late 90s. Checking himself over in the mirror it occurred to him this was maybe why he ended up in bed with more hipsters than accountants, then shrugged and headed out. 

Just walking into his favorite dive bar Clint felt his shoulders relax, some of the pressure of being “on” and being Hawkeye all the time easing. This was Luke’s, where no one gave a shit who you were as long as you paid your tab. He loved the Tower but sometimes he craved anonymity. Being a superhero was very different to being a SHIELD agent. 

Jessica was behind the bar, and even knowing she was going to give him the most amount of shit possible was a little bit relaxing. If anyone in New York didn’t give a single, solitary shit who Clint was in his professional life, it was Jessica Jones. He perched on a barstool and she slid the worst, shittiest beer they had on tap over to him and he grinned at her. 

“Long time, no see,” he said. 

Jessica rolled her eyes. “Oh, you think you’re hot shit now huh?”

Clint just grinned wider.

After a second of consideration, she turned away and poured a shot of the best whiskey in the bar - which was still not top shelf by anyone’s standards - and sat it in front of him. He gave her a confused look and she rolled her eyes again. “You fuck like a machine. Might as well have a drink to celebrate.”

He lifted the glass in a toast and then downed it, swallowing around the burn. He’d developed a taste for vodka since Nat had become his bestie, and whiskey was a different kind of beast. 

“Thanks,” he managed. 

She didn’t look impressed. Then again, she never did. It was Clint’s favorite thing about her. Well, his second favorite thing. His favorite thing was the time she’d thrown a guy across the bar for grabbing her ass. She jerked her chin at the pool tables in the back of the bar. “Go fix that.” 

There was only one occupied table, and it was occupied by an amazing ass and thighs Clint would like to die between, both of which were owned by a very pretty hipster with dark hair long enough to be pulled back into a bun. 

Clint gave Jessica a look. “What, you think I have a type now?”

She snorted. “I’ve seen you take people home from this bar, I think we both know your type is _easy_. But no, he’s massacring the locals at pool, and I thought you might like something else to help your crippled self-esteem.”

And, well, that wasn’t _wrong._ Clint turned to lean against the bar and watch as the guy cleared the table without missing a single shot. 

“Okay,” he said. “You have my attention.”

Jess passed him another shitty beer and a second, slightly less shitty beer, and glared at him until he got up to walk across the room. 

“Interested in a little competition?” Clint asked, as he approached the table. 

The other man looked up as Clint arrived, his eyes a startling shade of blue-grey that stood out among the dark hair and stubble. He gave Clint a narrow-eyed glare, looking at the beers in his hand. But then he gave Clint a second look, taking him in from top to bottom and the look turned considering. 

“Okay,” he said, after a moment, “sure. Haven’t had a decent game of pool in years.”

Clint snorted. “You don’t have to hustle me, Jess already told me you’re a pool shark.” He handed the other man the better of the two beers in his hand. “No idea if that’s what you’re drinking or if she’s fucking with us, by the way, so drink that at your own risk.”

Pretty Eyes watched Clint carefully as he raised the glass to his lips and drank about half of it, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, and Clint determinedly reminded himself he was under strict instructions not to pick up any strangers in a bar. 

But damn, he was so pretty. Fuck, this was unfair. 

“You rack,” Pretty Eyes said, leaning on his pool cue expectantly. 

“I’m Clint, actually,” Clint said, draining about half his beer before choosing a pool cue off the wall. It was a little crooked, but all cue sticks in bars tended to be, so Clint wasn’t worried. He racked the balls and stepped back to let Pretty Eyes break.

“I’m Bucky,” the guy said, halfway through running the table. 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” Clint said amiably. The name was so outrageous Clint would think it was fake, if it wasn’t for the fact that most people didn’t hand out fake names that memorable. And Bucky hadn’t been trying to be forgettable, leaning over the table directly in Clint’s line of sight and sinking every shot he called. He turned to meet Clint’s eyes every time he did it, a little smirk on his lips, and then went right back to it. 

It wasn’t until he was working his way around to the other side to line up a shot, leaning towards Clint instead of away from him, that Clint noticed the little line of ink along his index finger. 

“Is that a ruler?” Clint asked, gesturing with his glass. 

Bucky raised his eyebrows and took his next shot, not even looking to make sure the ball went where he aimed. Which he obviously didn’t need to, because he hadn’t missed so far. The smile one his face went from smug to mischievous between one blink and the next. He gave Clint another very thorough once over, and then said, “I’m a draftsman, so I’m very good at measuring things.”

It took Clint a second, but then he laughed, long and loud, gripping at his side where he could feel newly-healed skin pulling and hoping he didn’t actually do himself damage because if he had to go back and get stitches redone the very day he’d had them removed Natasha would definitely not be letting him out unsupervised again. 

“I bet you are,” Clint wheezed, when he could breathe again. “Measure a lot of things with your hands, do you?”

He wanted to ask Bucky when he’d figured it out, but asking was as good as admitting, and Clint wasn’t sure _that_ was a good idea. Very rarely he had a small spark of self-preservation, and outing himself to a stranger in a bar in Brooklyn seemed like the sort of thing Natasha might gently maim him for. 

“I could be persuaded,” Bucky allowed, and then gently tapped the cue ball, setting it in motion so that it just grazed the 15, which only moved a couple of inches. “Oops,” Bucky said, and straightened up to lean on his own cue. “Missed.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but obligingly lined up the next shot. And the next. And the one after that, clearing the table with aplomb and making it a point to show off at least as much as Bucky had, though he was too tall to need to lean quite as far. 

Bucky seemed to appreciate it anyway, if the way Clint could feel his gaze lingering was any indication. 

They played a couple more games - Bucky ran the table after Clint won, and then Clint did the same, banking as many trick shots as he could reasonably get away with before they called a truce. The bar was starting to fill up as the evening got later and later, and it was enough of a ruckus that Clint stopped being able to easily hear and was relying more and more on lipreading to know what Bucky was saying.

And he wanted to know what Bucky was saying. He was funny and interesting, with a wicked sense of humor to go with the amazing ass, and Clint was hooked. 

“You wanna get out of here?” he said, finally, after Bucky said the third thing in a row that Clint didn’t catch a word of. “Can’t really hear in all this,” he added, gesturing at the hearing aids he was wearing and the general cacophony of the room. 

Bucky glanced around, opened his mouth to speak and then closed it, choosing to nod instead. They put the pool cues away and moved towards the door, but Luke was there, arms crossed as he emphatically refused entry to a couple of guys in red MAGA hats. Clint turned on his heel and slid a hand onto the small of Bucky’s back to guide him towards a little-used side door. Technically it was an employee entrance and a fire exit, but Clint had used it enough times in the past that Jessica barely blinked at him as he went, shooting her a two-fingered salute. 

“You take all your hook-ups out the back door?” Bucky asked, once they were outside with the cool Brooklyn evening settling around them. 

“Just the ones I really like.” Clint said, giving him a sideways smirk. 

“Hmm.” Bucky nudged Clint until he was backing him against the brick of the building, just beyond a pool of light from the streetlamp. It was dark and intimate here in the alley behind Luke’s, which for some reason Luke always kept empty and cleaner than some enemy bases Clint had been in. He had a sneaking suspicion it was because Daredevil hung around here, but as Luke had never asked Clint about _his_ other identity, it seemed rude to ask about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and what he was doing in Bed-Stuy. 

Clint let himself be pressed against the wall, loose and easy, looking down at Bucky. 

Bucky was looking back contemplatively, like he was weighing his options, but before Clint could ask him if he came here often, he was tilting his chin up and pressing their mouths together in something hot and needy. 

He couldn’t stop the surprised noise that slipped out, but he pulled Bucky in close by his hips so that they were pressed tightly together, and Bucky kissed him harder, tongue darting out in a tease until Clint opened his mouth. The kiss got heavier, tongues twisting, and Clint moaned into it, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Bucky’s hair and sneaking his other hand lower to slide it into Bucky’s back pocket and squeeze. 

“Ah, fuck,” Clint said when Bucky released his lips to work hot, biting kisses down the column of his throat,sliding a thigh between Clint’s legs so that his hip was pressed against the burgeoning erection in Clint’s pants. 

Bucky hummed his agreement, tugging at the collar of Clint’s shirt to get to more skin. 

“I’ve been advised against inadvisable bar hook-ups,” Clint said, breathless, when Bucky slipped his hands beneath Clint’s shirt and his thumb brushed over the still-tender puckering of scar tissue on his side, bringing an unwelcome dose of reality to the situation. 

Backing away, Bucky gave him a rueful look and then sighed. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I gave up one night stands about a year back.”

He looked so disappointed that Clint pulled him in again to fit their mouths together into something more leisurely but just as wanton, a slick wet glide of lips and tongue and teeth. “You wanna get dinner?” Clint asked against his mouth, before moving to press a kiss to the corner of his lips and then crowding closer to nibble at his earlobe. 

“Yeah?” Bucky perked up under his hands. “Sure. When?”

“What are you doing tonight?” 

Bucky huffed out a near-silent laugh. “Well I’d planned on a hot hook-up with a gorgeous man, but I could eat.”

“Good, it’s a date.” Clint spun them, pressing Bucky back against the wall where he’d been leaning. Bucky looked a little bit wrecked, his mouth wet and swollen from kisses and his pupils wide in the low light. “Now that we’re dating, can I blow you?”

Sagging against the wall, Bucky closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “Yes. Fuck yes.”

Grinning, Clint dropped to his knees and nosed at the bulge in Bucky’s tight, dark jeans, breathing hotly over the denim. Bucky gave a choked-off whine, and Clint reached for his wallet, pulling out the condom he’d stuck in there before he left his apartment. 

Sure he’d been told not to pick up any inadvisable hook-ups, but Clint believed in being prepared, and besides, Bucky was a very advisable hook-up and also Clint deserved nice things. As long as he didn’t end up on the news, it’d be fine. What Pepper didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. 

Clint shoved his wallet back in his pocket and went to work on the buttons of Bucky’s jeans, popping each one individually just to hear the breathy little sounds Bucky made when he did it. Bucky’s cock was already hard and wet at the tip, and Clint gave it a friendly squeeze, a little hello, before pulling it out of his briefs. Clint pushed the jeans and underwear down just enough to give himself better access, and then rolled a condom over him and followed it with his mouth. 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Bucky gasped, hips jacknifing off the wall as Clint swallowed him whole. “Holy fucking-!”

Clint wrapped his hands around Bucky’s hips, more for support than control, and dragged his mouth up and down Bucky’s cock, slow and sure, more a tease than anything. Bucky’s hands landed on his shoulders, and then one tangled in the longer hair on top of his head, fingers twisting into the strands. Clint glanced up to find Bucky watching him, eyes dark, and he swallowed him down again, pushing past his gag reflex until his nose was buried in dark, wiry hair, and Bucky’s face was flushed even in the dim lights of the alley. Then he eased off just as slowly, hollowing his cheeks out as he went, sucking ruthlessly while Bucky’s eyes slipped shut and he shuddered. 

Pulling off completely, Clint wrapped his fingers around the base of Bucky’s cock and blew across the damp latex at the head. Bucky shivered, his fingers tightening in Clint’s hair. 

“You wanna fuck my mouth?” Clint offered, giving his cock a quick pull and twist with his wrist, before wrapping his lips around the head. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Bucky said.

Clint hummed, using both his hands to pull Bucky’s hips towards his face. He’d had a warmup and he liked having his face fucked. _And_ they were going to dinner after this. All in all Clint was having the most romantic date of his life. 

It took a little encouragement, with Clint making some very pornographic, wanton, _enthusiastic_ noises whenever Bucky thrust forward, but eventually he was fucking Clint’s mouth like it was something he’d spent a lot of time thinking about. Sometimes fast and sometimes slow, and sometimes just the tease of his cockhead on Clint’s lips while he waited with his mouth open and wet, until finally Bucky was coming roughly, his fist tight in Clint’s hair as he panted and whimpered at the sky. Like looking at Clint’s face was gonna be too much. 

Clint pulled the condom off gently and then tossed it in the dumpster a few feet away. He tucked Bucky away as he stood up, tugging his briefs and pants up and doing up the buttons. “Good?” he asked, while Bucky stood there dumbstruck and trembling, Clint pressing him into the wall to keep him upright. 

Bucky snorted weakly. “Stop fishing for compliments. My brain is still mush.”

“Mmm,” Clint hummed. He dragged his mouth over Bucky’s throat and down to his neck, pressing wet kisses there, just for the sake of it. He was hard and throbbing in his pants, but it was nothing that couldn’t wait until after dinner, if Bucky was up for it. 

“So,” he said, when Bucky’s breathing and heart rate were something close to normal. “Dinner? I know a shitty diner a couple blocks over that has great pancakes.”

Bucky barked out a laugh. “Sure,” he said, his voice still low and hoarse, but bright with unrepressed amusement. “Woo me with pancakes.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my eternal gratitude to Steph for the beta read and the screaming. Love you babe!


End file.
